


stay with me

by mortalitasi



Series: wishing in frankincense [2]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Memory Loss, Other, Romance, so much memory loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 18:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12613240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: Is it actually a secret if you want to tell the person you're keeping it from so badly it hurts?She doesn't remember, and maybe never will. So he will remember for them both.





	stay with me

**Author's Note:**

> i am sweat-your-eyeballs out, accidentally-injure-yourself nervous about uploading this. probably because i haven't loved a character like this in a long time. >.> please excuse the wild headcanoning. i'm working with what we've got until we see more updates, aaa
> 
> significance of the flowers mentioned is at the end.

**i. michaelmas daisy** **.**  
  
  
  
Goodbye is less of a word now, and more of a state of being. It’s not over until he returns—and he always does, no matter what—but it’s as difficult for him as it is for her, leaving her behind, though they do it frequently.  
  
She used to be considerably more vocal about departures, right after her recovery. The first time, he’d ended up doubling back to check on her, appearing as a wisp at the window; she’d been sitting at the table, holding a very still-full cup of tea in her hands, knees tucked up under her colorful skirts, crying like a child. He’d let Faust slither in under the door, slippery silent, and gone on his way, despite the fact that it felt tremendously, stupendously wrong to do so. But work—and time—wait for no one. Not even Asra.  
  
Now she just sees him to the door, if she’s awake enough to when he goes, smiling, the heavy tail of her hair swinging behind her. She doesn’t enjoy it any more than he does, but she is alright on her own, which is progress that pleases them both. She has passed every test he’s set for her… the ones she has no idea she’s participating in included.  
  
The morning is hazy with early summer sun, the air already warming. The city is waking slowly—the smells of spice and warm bread are rising from the market, and the jingling of brass bells as the livestock stalls are filled for the day is a comforting sort of sound you can’t find anywhere else. He likes to leave before the heat becomes too much of a problem, because a drowsy city is easier to move through than one populated with friends and merchants that will stop you at every turn. The person it’s hardest to walk past is right here in his own home, anyhow.  
  
Faust is coiled atop her head, blinking out at him with curious eyes. His self-proclaimed apprentice is still sleepy, a purple shawl draped around her shoulders, her curls clinging to the fabric and moving with the intangible gust of her breath.  
  
“Ari, you should go back to bed,” he says, voice muffled behind the rise of his scarf.  
  
“Shush,” she mumbles without any real venom. “Not going to be doing that. If I went back to bed, who would give you your present?”  
  
His heart does this odd lolloping flip-flop, like it’s turning over itself in his chest, protesting against the confining cage of the ribs encircling it. “A present?” he says, laughing.  
  
“It’s nothing special,” she insists as she draws a charm out from under the curve of the shawl.  
  
He holds out a hand for her to place it in; warmth fizzes from the place where they join, briefly, and he’s almost too distracted to get a good look at what she just dropped in his palm. It’s a wonderful little figure of a snake, carved from—what, amethyst?—hanging from a leather thong. The white stones that serve as the serpent’s tiny eyes seem to wink up at him, knowing and mischievous. Secretive and playful.  
  
“Lady Zenobia gifted me a gemstone as payment for one of her readings,” she explains, smiling at whatever of his expression she can see. “I called in a favor with the jeweller, to have it carved. This quality of stone really is powerful, you know. I hardly had to enhance its protective abilities. And she just gave it away like candy. Amazing.”  
  
“It’s beautiful,” he says earnestly. “I almost don’t want to take it.”  
  
She closes his fingers around the necklace, and his heart leaps. Again. “You had better!” she exclaims. “It was _meant_ for you. It’s only fair, after all.” She reaches up to stroke a knuckle along Faust’s head. “I get to keep the real deal.”  
  
“Only fair, hm?” he echoes, staring down at their conjoined hands. Her skin is soft. He’s a fool, but stars—it feels good to be one.  
  
“So…” she starts, color gathering in her cheeks. “Ah—yes. Take it and… be safe. Please.”  
  
“I’ll be back,” Asra murmurs.  
  
“I know,” she says, somewhat indignantly… but doesn’t let go.  
  
They stand there together, near the jamb of the door, neither really knowing what they’re expecting. She stares up at him, and he’s struck by the way she’s watching him, like every good thing in the world relies on his existence. For her—it might. Does that thought frighten him, or thrill him? Both? He wishes it weren’t so needlessly complex, that he could just tell her everything, that could stop having to dance around this insulting pretense of treating her as a pupil. She’s so close, close enough that he can see the barely-there speckling of freckles on the bridge of her nose. All she would have to do is lean up, and—and that is probably a train of thought not worth entertaining right now.  
  
“Until next time,” he tells her, past the dryness in his mouth.  
  
Her hand slips away, to hide behind the shawl once more. “I’ll be waiting,” she says. The words are surprisingly soothing.  
  
Goodbye has started, but it’s not as bad as it used to be.

 

* * *

 

 **ii. purple lilac.**  
  
  
  
_One of the first things he learns about her is that she insists on making most of her own clothes._  
  
_This means, of course, that more often than not, especially on the days where work is slow, he can find her among the fabric stalls in the market, talking tailoring with the workers there, drinking small cups of her beloved coffee and darning robes and tunics._  
  
_She loves what luxury she can afford, pretty things, shiny things, things that glitter and glow and sparkle; there are always beads in her hair, thinly-hammered coins on her headscarves and shawls, sequins sewn into her lovingly-created slippers. Her intense attention to detail doesn’t surprise him at all_ — _that kind of near-obsessiveness is often a trait in the users of the arcane, people who can see beyond the pale and into the next world._  
  
_“You do this free of charge?” he’d asked her, one day as they’d sat together, and he’d followed the trail of her hands as she made miniscule, perfect stitches with a paper-thin bone needle and a length of white string._  
  
_“No,” she’d answered. “I get to see people wearing them. That’s my payment.” She’d laughed at the quirk in his brow. “I make enough off my readings. Many aren’t that lucky. If I can give them clothes to last another month or two_ — _well, isn’t that just as valuable?”_  
  
_“I wasn’t doubting you,” he’d said, hasty to reassure her. “That kind of generosity is rare. It’s… a nice change.”_  
  
_“Well, that’s flattering.” She’d smiled at him, cheeks dimpling. “Maybe you just need to keep better company, no?”_  
  
_“Maybe I do,” he’d answered._  
  
_He weaves through the afternoon crush of the market, ducking under awnings and past crowded corridors, clutching the gift he’s carrying to his chest. She’s sitting on a canvas stool beneath the shade of a stretched drape, way in the far back of the tailor’s lot, unfurling a length of dark red fabric that glistens like wine under the light of the sun. She spots him as he approaches, and the grin of recognition on her face sets his pulse running at breakneck speed. He can feel the flush climbing up the back of his neck to his ears and clavicle. What sweet torture this is!_  
  
_“Asra,” she says, voice edged with excitement. “Look_ — _the silks from Prakra arrived this morning. Isn’t this wonderful?”_  
  
_He looks down at what she’s holding, and some distant part of him agrees. It is indeed wonderful, and will make handsome clothes, but his mind is mostly elsewhere._  
  
_“I thought you might appreciate some sustenance,” he manages to say, offering her one of the oil-paper packages in his hands. “I believe this is your favorite.”_  
  
_She accepts with a look of hopeful wonder_ — _and makes a short, adorable sound of glee when she sees what is waiting for her inside. “Pumpkin garlic bread! With_ goat cheese. _Did Omar give away my weakness? He’s a spymaster, not a baker…”_  
  
_“I wouldn’t call it a_ weakness _,” Asra says slowly. She makes him so curious._  
  
_“You don’t understand,” she intones, with all the grave solemnity of someone imparting a painful truth. “You know my secret now. I would do_ anything _for this bread.”_  
  
_He smirks at her, thoroughly amused_ — _and perhaps something else. “_ Anything _?”_  
  
_There’s no way she doesn’t catch his meaning. She holds his gaze for a few moments, her yellow-green eyes cautious and inquisitive, but there’s more there, as well: a careful, almost affectionate light, one that does nothing to quell the burning that’s overtaken him. It lets him hope that this_ — _whatever this is_ — _could develop. Even though he’s never felt this way before and has absolutely no clue, at all, whatsoever, in the slightest, that he’s doing._  
  
_At last she bursts out laughing, the sound washing over him, cooling rain over dry heat. “Thank you,” she says. “For the food… and for bringing it yourself. Do you want to sit?” She pulls up another canvas stool, patting it with a slender hand, her bracelets jingling._  
  
_He accepts her offer by settling himself, crossing his ankles and propping his chin up on a palm. “You should eat it while it’s still warm.”_  
  
_She shoots him a bemused look. “Yes, yes. I will. But first_ — _I think I still have some of that lapsang souchong lying around in my cabinet inside. Would you like a cup?”_  
  
_For an instant he can only stare. She remembered. His mouth recovers before his brain. “I would love one, if that’s not too much trouble.”_  
  
_Her smile is back, bright and lovely. “If it were, I wouldn’t have asked,” she assures him. She sets the fabric and bread aside, separately, delicately, and then stands, her tunic and skirts rippling around her. The scarf she has pinned to her hair today is embroidered with many, miniature magenta flowers, stark against the white. “I’ll be right back!”_  
  
_She disappears into the yawning entrance of the store behind them, and he’s left alone, for a while, among the rolls of imported goods, cased in by the buzz of the market and the gauzy orange-red of the noon sun._  
  
_He visualizes the instant she laughed, repeating in his head._ Oh, _he thinks, as if he’s just noticed_ —she’s beautiful.

 

* * *

   
  
**iii.  motherwort.**  
  
  
  
The shop door is locked, safe and tight, and the alleyways and roads outside are dark and empty.  
  
Night has settled over Vesuvia, bringing with it stars and silence. Asra doesn’t tend to sleep early—sometimes an unexpected visitor will turn up long after the shop has shut, needing help or counsel, but most of the time, he just can’t drift off as quickly as he’d like. That tends to happen when you have too much to think about. Besides, it’s not so bad, sitting at the table, surrounded by the evidence of their joint living, wiling away the hours with solitaire and tea.  
  
He’s trying to decide what to do after his current game of solitaire is over when a familiar warmth wriggles into his pant-leg, squeezing tight around his ankle.  
  
“Faust?” he mutters, looking down at where she’s peeking out at him from underneath the hem of his tunic. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“ _Help!_ ” Her minute voice is full of urgency, ringing in his head. She gives his ankle another pleading squish as worry floods him. “ _Her! Help!”_  
  
He stands so quickly the chair shrieks against the floor.  
  
Faust practically rappels away, pulling herself across the ground and up the bannister with a speed that’s almost supernatural. She reaches the bedroom door before he does—the steep stairs upward seem to take a lot longer to traverse than usual—and when he gets there he can see it’s already canted open, probably by Faust’s exit.  
  
Asra enters, dread threading through his bones, waiting for his sight to adjust to the darkness of the room. Some light from the street, moon and lantern, is coming in through the window, coloring what it covers silver. She’s backed up against the headboard, clutching at her knees, knuckles white, her long braid curled next to her. Her cheeks are red, streaked with tears, and the rasping cadence of her breathing tears at him. She’s having one of her episodes—a blight that haunts her at night, just another trouble she has to add to her ever-growing list.  
  
“Ari?” he says carefully, and she jolts, like she’s been struck.  
  
She searches his face with wild eyes, as though she doesn’t know him. “Asra,” she whispers. Her blank expression collapses, and a sob escapes her. “Asra…”  
  
He sits beside her on the mattress, taking her hands in his. They’re cold, and shaking, and he clasps them between his palms in a vain attempt to give comfort. “I’m here now,” he says, rubbing his thumbs over the insides of her wrists. “Was it a dream?”  
  
She nods, glancing down momentarily when Faust nestles into her lap. “I keep seeing things I don’t understand,” she murmurs, voice cracking with a mixture of panic and sorrow. She bows her head, shoulders trembling. “It burns, Asra. I’m afraid. I don’t want to die.”  
  
His stomach drops. He hauls himself nearer, slinging an arm around her, drawing her into his embrace. The scent of her bath oil lingers on her skin, bergamot and frankincense, sharpening her own naturally sweet notes; he turns his face into her the crook of her neck, pressing close as she wets his shirt with her tears. “You’re not going to die,” he says, hoping he sounds final enough to convince her. “Nothing will happen to you. I’ll make sure of it.”  
  
She cries almost without sound. She’s always been private—the kind to suffer in silence rather than seek support. “I’m sorry,” she blurts, the words garbled. “I’m so sorry. I feel like my heart’s going to stop.”  
  
“Shh,” Asra murmurs. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He swipes his forehead against her temple, feeling the fever-heat of her fear there. He wishes he could do more. “Take a deep breath—hold it in for a little. For a bit. LIke that. Now… let it out. Nice and slow.”  
  
He continues holding her hands as they breathe together, waiting until the tremor in her arms has faded. Faust slips around her neck as she looks at him again, drawn face framed by wayward curls, eyes almost black in the gloom. “Who am I?” she asks, sending a lance of ice down his spine.  
  
What can he say that won’t give him away? That won’t make this worse? It would be so easy for this to fall apart—he’s never figured out some of the triggers in the past, what caused that terrifying catatonia. He decides on what seems safest. “You’re Ariadne,” he answers, lifting his hands so he can cup her cheeks, fingers digging into the satin of her hair. “Just Ari. You don’t have to be anyone else.”  
  
Her eyelids slide shut, lashes feathering at his skin, light and ticklish. “Okay,” she says, quietly.  
  
He hopes she believes him.

 

* * *

  
  
**iv. lemon blossom.**  
  
  
  
_This shouldn’t be difficult._  
  
_He’s going to drop by_ — _discreetly_ — _and without saying anything dumb, or stumbling over his words,_ discreetly _hand over the shawl she forgot at his shop, and then discreetly make his way out. During all of this, he’s going to firmly ignore feeling fluttery, giddy, happy, or otherwise euphoric as a direct result of being in Ariadne’s presence. Discreetly, of course._  
  
_Asra isn’t a child_ — _he’s felt affection before, in varying amounts, and he’s experienced enough to recognize its roots. He knows very well that if he lets it, this strange, burgeoning attachment will grow, tangled, past his control_ — _and he’s not entirely sure that at that point, he’d want to stop it. He won’t allow that to happen. He can’t._  
  
_He descends the stairs and turns the corner onto the narrow street her house is on. She’s sitting outside today, near the door of her home, washing a clump of clothes inside a wooden vat overflowing with soapy water. The bulk of her black curls are drawn back in a sloppy bun, held together with a bright red scarf that keeps the flyaways out of her eyes. She wipes at her brow with the back of one wrist, drawing his attention to the line of her shoulders, which is rather generously displayed by the short sleeveless vest she’s chosen to wear today._  
  
_“Ariadne,” he calls out, and his throat grows tight at her replying smile._  
  
_“My favorite magician,” she says. “I’d hug you, but…” And then she holds up her sopping hands, still studded with suds._  
  
_“It’s fine,” he responds, secretly thankful she can’t. “I just wanted to drop this off.” He places the folded shawl on the low bench she has pushed up against the front wall of the house._  
  
_Her place is a humble one; a little corner in the wall, practically, whitewashed and splendidly clean for a house constantly exposed to traffic and sun. She has charms and sprigs of dried sage and juniper hanging over her doorway, and from underneath them peeks a colorful painting of an evil eye ward. It’s what the people in the city proper would call charming, or rustic. He just thinks it’s comforting._  
  
_“I thought I’d lost that,” she exclaims, thick brows rising. “Thank you, Asra. I’m always thanking you for something or other, aren’t I?”_  
  
_He coughs into a hand. “It’s nothing.”_  
  
_“I’m a little indisposed at the minute,” Ariadne says, frowning. “Ah… what should I do?”_  
  
_“Don’t inconvenience yourself,” he interjects._  
  
_“It’s fine,” she insists. “I have an idea.”_  
  
_He stands still as she comes to her feet and then rises to her tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. He can smell honey on her breath; her lips are dry, but not chapped, and distractingly plump. This is her reward? A part of him is howling in joy_ — _and another is cursing how challenging she’s making it to maintain distance. Against his better judgment, he rests a hand at her waist, on the skin bared by her vest, keeping her close. Her heartbeat thuds under his fingertips. It can’t be completely wrong to feel like this. It would be some kind of an injustice._  
  
_“And,” she starts, going back to her normal height, “just call me Ari.”_  
  
_Asra cranes his head down to look at her, mystified. She’s returning his attention, bashful and even hesitant, as though there’s a chance he’ll reject her. “Ari,” he murmurs, trying it out. “Hello.”_  
  
_She laughs, cheeks turning pink. “Hello.”_  
  
_He draws her into an embrace_ — _and she moves into it, wet hands and all._

 

* * *

   
  
**v. betony.**  
  
  
  
He lingers at the edge of the lake’s shore, muscles taut like wire.  
  
With every step, her figure grows further away. The glowing flower at the center of the cavern pulses with a kind light, golden and good. A perfect lure. He holds his breath as she turns to look at him, terror turning his blood cold. _Not again_.  
  
But she just faces forward once more and keeps going, stepping with slippered feet on the billowing lilypads.  
  
By the end he can only make out the glint of her jewelry, the flutter of her exquisitely-made tunic. Nadia truly spared no expense in clothing her, down to the very recognizable emerald sitting at her throat. The Countess has a shrewd eye for fashion, and a very characteristic way of enhancing even the most subtle of beauties—she’s dressed Ari in jewel-tones from head to toe, making sure to take advantage of her figure, emphasizing it with a handsome sash cinched at the waist. She looks different—not in a bad way. Like… she’s begun to blossom.  
  
A splash echoes throughout the cavern, and the anxiety comes roaring back with a vengeance. She’s nowhere to be seen—the only evidence she was once ever above water at all is the gentle rippling of the lake around the flower’s pad. He tears off his bag, not even stopping to remove the shawl, and launches himself in. The water is warm, as it always has been, humming with power, pellucid, reflective, like liquid crystal. There’s no resistance as he cuts a path downward, arms traveling in great arcs.  
  
He spots her some meters below, floating serenely, taking in the bottomless chasm beneath them with an awed expression. She doesn’t respond until he’s reached her, and holds her hands out for him to grasp. He’s ready to tug her up when he sees her chest is still, and no bubbles of valuable air are leaking from her mouth. She even smiles at him, a little teasing, mostly inordinately pleased. The undulating halo of her ebony hair brushes at his shoulders, raising gooseflesh on his skin.  
  
The soundless spell of the world below is broken when they resurface. He laughs, unrestrained, and holds her face in his hands as they tread water.  
  
“You remembered!” he says, feeling like he could cry.  
  
She nods, breathless, not from need, but from elation. “I did,” she confirms, her eyes shining with joyful tears. “I remembered. We were here before—together.”  
  
“We were,” Asra replies. He pulls her toward the shore. “Come on.”  
  
She follows without protest, bobbing silently in the water.  
  
They take their rest there on the rocks, and he has to turn to look at her to reassure himself she’s still there, that this isn’t just some fanciful dream his mind cooked up in the wee hours of the morning—that he won’t have to wake up, disappointed, to find that this never happened. They talk, in low tones, and the worry eats at him. She’s fine, she’s here—but the uncertainty is present anyway.  
  
“It’s alright,” Ari says gently, wiping a wet curl out of his eyes as he leans over her. “You can tell me.”  
  
His face grows hot. “I was so worried. All I want to do is hold you.”  
  
“Then hold me,” she answers, and opens her arms to him. He fits himself against the curve of her body, resting one cheek over the place where her heartbeat is loudest, listening to it speed up under his ear. She cards her fingers through the downy fuzz at his nape, and he shudders, tightening his grasp around her. “I could never say no to you.”  
  
He chuckles into the damp silk of her tunic. “Good to know. Heh. Lucky me.”  
  
“You’re my favorite magician, after all,” Ari confesses, and his own heart lurches, paining him like a wound.  
  
He swallows past the knot in his throat. “You did so well,” he goes on. “I was worrying over nothing… someday, I’ll stop underestimating you, Ari.” She continues to stroke at his scalp, listening. It’s not often that he’s the one talking. He has too much to guard. “Mm. It feels good to hold you like this. It’s been… pretty tough, wondering if I would ever get the chance again.”  
  
He doesn’t have to look up to see the question written across her countenance. _Has this happened before? You and I? Were we…?_  
  
“Well,” she says, barely audible, squeezing him to her, “enjoy yourself.”  
  
He laughs again, pressing a kiss to the space between her breasts. She tenses around him, pulse suddenly racing, and he draws back to meet her gaze. “You okay? Your breath got shallow,” he clarifies, grip loosening. A shameful thought occurs to him, and his embarrassed blush makes another appearance. “…Too tight?”  
  
“Not really,” she tells him. “Just—surprised.”  
  
He sighs. “First I put you in harm’s way, now I have to squeeze the life out of you.” She leans into the touch at her spine, the tender hold on her hips. “It’s just… been a while since I got a scare like that.”  
  
Ari scoffs, not without humor. “Maybe I don’t challenge you enough, then.”  
  
“Don’t even _joke_ about it,” he admonishes, thumbs brushing over the base of her ribs. Another small shiver from her. “I’m the one who was supposed to keep my cool—but I didn’t even _think_ before I jumped in. Pft. And now…” He lowers his face to put an ear to her chest again, pleased to hear the rhythm there stutter and pick up. “I need your heartbeat to soothe me. What I wouldn’t do for this heartbeat… I love this sound.”  
  
He coasts his lips over that precious patch of skin for a second time and she gasps, her wrists twitching. “Asra!”  
  
He snickers. “Heh—it’s getting faster.”  
  
“There’s no need to point out the obvious,” she whispers furiously, tugging on his hair with no force.  
  
The levity fades as reality returns. “Do you know what would happen to me, if I let something happen to you?” he says, trying his hardest to memorize the feeling of her under his palms, the pleasant gust of her breath, the sensation of being so close that he can guess her expressions by the way she moves. He seeks out her gaze—she’s already looking at him, pupils blown wide, almost swallowing the odd catlike color of her eyes. She can tell there is an old hurt behind his question, though she doesn’t know what it is.  
  
“I’m just glad you were here,” she says, truth present in every word.  
  
“Me too,” he returns. He cants his face downward. “So glad. It’s just… you know.”  
  
The ghosting graze of her fingers at his chin startles him, as she tilts his head up so they can lock eyes again. “Just what?” she inquires, trapping him with her sincerity.  
  
“Ah, it’s nonsense. And I know better, but…”  
  
“But?” she prompts, still searching. “It’s not nonsense if it has you worried.”  
  
He shrugs. “I’m not always going to be here,” Asra says at last. Maybe venting these irrational feelings will make them disappear. “It’s hard, knowing I may be gone at a time you need me—somewhere I brought you, or… someplace I made you think was safe. Whenever I’m not with you.”  
  
Ari considers him for a second. The water laps and sparkles around her waist as she moves into his lap, her arms winding behind his neck. The intimacy of the position is not lost on him—Ari talks through her actions as much as she does through words, and she never does something she doesn’t mean. He can’t look away, not as she draws closer, nor as she speaks.  
  
“Then stay with me,” she says, and kisses him.  
  
He surges forward to meet her halfway, tangling his hands in her hair, drinking her in, eliminating whatever infinitesimal space was left between them. She falls into the flow of his caresses, pressing her palms flat against his chest, letting him do whatever he wants; she quivers at the lick of his tongue at her bottom lip, letting him in with a sigh. He had almost given up the possibility of a connection like this after… after she’d lost everything. She isn’t a shy lover, though she is a considerate one, and he’s _missed_ this, so, so much.  
  
It’s like coming home, being able to be honest about how he feels toward her, how vivid and affecting this love is.  
  
Love, _love_. Today has been full of surprises.

 

* * *

   
  
**vi. pink carnation.**  
  
  
  
_“Dance with me,” he suggests suddenly, half-bowing and holding out a ringed hand._  
  
_She blinks down at it. They’ve been sitting outside for some time now, away from the general hubbub of the Masquerade, on one of the many blissfully private balconies overlooking the courtyard. Ari doesn’t mind herself a good festivity_ — _you could, in fact, say holiday rowdiness is in her blood_ — _but the attentions of the Masquerade are sometimes too much for her to handle. Hence, the balcony. And the magician, who seems fine with following her wherever she goes._  
  
_“You can barely hear the music,” she says, thoroughly charmed anyhow. Asra is gorgeous in his outfit for the night, all white and magenta and gold, his boots fitted to perfection, ringlets as fluffed and attractive as ever. She’s not quite sure why he pays her any mind._  
  
_He gives her a sly smile. “We can make our own,” he remarks. The laugh that gets out of her is loud and earnest, and judging by his expression, pleasing to him._  
  
_“When you put it that way, who could resist?” she concedes, taking his hand and letting him pull her from the marble bench._  
  
_He twirls her into a swaying number matched to the strains of the song they can hear coming from the Grand Hall, flute and drum and string, and she lets out an embarrassingly girlish giggle when her dress spins around her legs with the momentum. She’d ended up deciding on a backless piece in blue. It’s looser than what she usually wears, and she’s bound her hair in a high pile that shows off what she’s been told is a long neck. There is kohl lining her lashes and bergamot oil on her skin. Ari is not unused to feeling pretty_ — _but what happens to her in Asra’s presence is beyond some cosmetic assurance._  
  
_She feels valued. She feels wonderful. She feels… loved._  
  
_“You look serious,” he observes, as they make a turn around a particularly large vase._  
  
_“Because I’m thinking of serious things,” she retorts. “Like… how grateful am to be here with you. And how I wouldn’t have it be anyone else.”_  
  
_Asra clears his throat, the telltale flush creeping over his skin. The hand at her waist strokes at the small of her back. “It’s the same for me.”_  
  
_“I’m happy to have met you,” Ari says, and their dancing trickles to a stop. He gazes down at her, violet eyes full of some emotion she can’t accurately name._  
  
_“I am, too,” he mutters. His rings were cold, before, but are now warming with her body heat. Framed against the night sky, full of twinkling stars, caught in the warm light from the sconces in the palace, he looks almost inhuman_ — _ethereal. He is sweet, and smart, and sometimes infuriatingly cryptic, but he cares for her. And he has chosen her. “I can’t put it into words.”_  
  
_She grins at him. “Show me?”_  
  
_He laughs softly, reaching out to her face. “It would be my pleasure,” he says, lowering his mouth to hers._  
  
_Life has not always been good to her, and that’s alright, because it happens to everyone_ — _times like this are what make it bearable, what make it worth it._  
  
_She will never forget tonight._

**Author's Note:**

> i. farewell.  
> ii. first emotions of love.  
> iii. concealed love.  
> iv. discretion.  
> v. surprise.  
> vi. i will never forget you.


End file.
